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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230782">Skin Cold Against the Concrete</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10'>Mishka10</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Whump, s1 ep11, so much whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:48:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"The sound of it filled his head, the continuous rhythmic flow of blood, rushing through his ears, mixing and melding with the cacophony of other sounds already there."</p><p>A character study/examination of mental states, looking at a moment of Malcolm's time captured by The Junkyard Killer.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Skin Cold Against the Concrete</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His head is pounding, an annoyingly unpredictable beat, changing and twisting as it pounds through his head, reverberating around his battered skull. The uneven rhythm making it particularly hard to think.  </p><p>Occasionally it almost seems as though it has begun to slow, when he lies there long enough, staring at nothing, he can just about trick himself into believing it is gone. But such reprieves are always short lived, the moment he dares to take note of its absence it comes rushing back, somehow worse than before.</p><p>The worst moments are when it manages to align with the heavy thump of his heartbeat, thankfully still steady and regular, but still painfully loud within his ribcage. Each beat tugged painfully on his chest, as though it was ripping through flesh and muscle to keep pumping.</p><p>He could almost feel it, each beat, slow, so painfully slow, feel it pushing the blood around his body, feel it moving, slow and heavy, like treacle, fighting against his struggling heart, refusing to flow freely as it should.</p><p>The sound of it filled his head, the continuous rhythmic flow of blood, rushing through his ears, mixing and melding with the cacophony of other sounds already there.</p><p> </p><p>It is deafening. Drowning out any whispers of the real world, the world beyond the confines of his broken body and screaming mind.  </p><p> </p><p>His muscles scream alongside it, burning with a dull, pulsing ache.</p><p> Sometimes the ache turns sharp, stabbing through his flesh, like needles digging into his limbs. It’s blinding, each flair up stealing his breath, sending him gasping and contorting, desperately twisting in the hopes of finding someway to alleviate the pain.  </p><p>But mostly the ache is dull, a constant heavy weight, tugging against him, weighing him down, until he feels that if it continues, he may just sink into the ground below him. Suffocate on the dirt.</p><p>Sometimes he tries to quiet crying muscles, stretching and shifting against the cold ground. It never helps for long, too soon each new position he picks becomes just as painful as the last.</p><p>It doesn’t help that each movement resulted in the rough concrete just tugging at his clothes, adding more to the painful prickling sensation filling his limbs.</p><p> </p><p>Concrete, he has learnt, is incredibly unkind. It is cold. So cold. He swears it is sapping what little heat he has left. He can feel it, draining out of him, swallowed by the unforgiving floor beneath him. A numbing chill quickly soaks in in its place, an icy cold, settling into his bones, weighing down tired limbs even further.</p><p>It seems particularly harsh against his feet, bare toes digging against the cold ground, scraping against it, thin skin scratched off, he feels the abrasion, skin rough and broken, torn away by the hard edge of cold concrete. Leaving him even more bare and defenceless in turn.</p><p> </p><p>In fleeting moments of lucidity, when his tired eyes agree to focus, he tries to stare at the cruel floor, noting each dip, rock, and abnormality he can find. It helps, he thinks. It keeps him sane; he thinks. Keeps him aware, mind awake, even if focused on nothing important.</p><p> </p><p>In truth he mostly just stares at the blood. The ground before and around him is splattered and stained a dirty reddish brown. It seems to have sunken in so deep, the concrete greedily soaking it in, drinking in his blood, making it just another thing it has stolen from him.</p><p> </p><p>What little blood hasn’t been drunk by the concrete stains his clothes and skin instead. He can feel it, settled against his skin, it was warm to begin with, but quickly turned as cold and biting as the ground beneath him.  It seems to steal what little body heat he had left, freezing whatever parts of him it touches.</p><p>The blood sticks to him, gluing his thin shirt to his body, tugging uncomfortably on the skin whenever he tries to move.  </p><p>He can see some of it, staining his hands, somehow still wet and slick while the rest has cooled and congealed against his skin. The blood on his hand however shines, glistening in the harsh exposed light, almost too bright to look at.</p><p> </p><p>He leaves it be, tries to focus on something else, eyes drifting to the tangled mess that is his wrist. The metal clasped so tight, edge digging into delicate flesh. He wonders how tight it actually is, wonders if it’s tight enough to cause lasting damage, the band is so thin, twisted so tight against his skin, the perfect recipe for lasting nerve damage.</p><p>He wonders if it will ever heal.</p><p>He wonders if he will ever get the chance to find out.</p><p>The skin of his wrist is already damaged, rubbed raw, bleeding. Perhaps that’s why the blood on his hands still looked so fresh.</p><p> </p><p>Staring isn’t working, isn’t helping as he had hoped it would. He lets his eyes unfocused, lets his mind begin to slip away again, disappear into the comforting space of unconsciousness. Eyes blank and glassy, looking but no longer seeing.</p><p>Lets himself begin to sink into the welcoming darkness, where the ache of his head, his muscles, the scream of tired limbs and weighted rhythm of his heart are all but distant afterthoughts. Muted, hidden enough he can pretend they aren’t important.</p><p>Pretend he shouldn’t be worried. Pretend its fine to continue lying there, feeling nothing, doing nothing, letting the world slip by without him.</p><p>If only it wasn’t for the quiet but insistent voice, squirreled away in the corner of his mind, screaming not to. Screaming that if he does, he might not wake back up. Screaming at him to move, get up, do something. <em>Anything</em>.</p><p>He listens, this time, but does not move. Lets his mind wander, not yet giving up completely to the darkness, he wonders how long it will take. He wonders how long it had already been. He realises he has no idea; time has little meaning to one stuck in a haze of pain. He wonders, if it had been minutes, seconds? Hours? He has no way of knowing.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders how long it will be, if he will ever find out.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders why he cares, lets tired eyes fall closed. Let’s the darkness seep back in. let’s himself ignore the voice.</p><p>Just for now, he tells himself.</p><p>He will listen later he tells himself.</p><p>When he wakes up.</p><p>Assuming, of course, he does.</p><p>And if he doesn’t? Well then, problem solved. Pain over. No need to worry, no need to worry ever again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Admittedly v late to the game, I have no excuse for any of it, i just wanted to write whump. </p><p>-thanks for reading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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